


Wicked souls and brittle bones

by Catherines_Collections



Category: Over the Garden Wall (Cartoon)
Genre: Chronic Illness, Dark Magic, Gen, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-07-25 14:05:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7535698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catherines_Collections/pseuds/Catherines_Collections
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><cite> Brittle bones, </cite> the spirits whisper, <cite> make for excellent witches.</cite></p>
            </blockquote>





	Wicked souls and brittle bones

**Author's Note:**

> So i'm not even going to pretend this isn't rushed or scattered. I liked this idea, i've had it for a while, and my inspiration for it has depleted by the day so i really tried hard to finish it. Probably gonna come back and revise.
> 
> It may become a series, it may not. I had some ideas for an advance in plot but we shall see. 
> 
> So please enjoy this prequel i have constructed with my bittersweet love for writing and constant enchantment with magic.
> 
> I own nothing of this.

She studies the words until her mind is full. She recites her versus until the rocks cool. She is magic and magic does not wait.

.

She finds a book burrowed in the log of an ancient evergreen tree, its golden fabric spine shredded and covers black blanks. She opens to the first page and it’s like sliding a key into a lock. 

.

Her skin is pale, has been since the day of her birth, and her body is weak. Her strength comes in words and that is her first step on the path of becoming a witch.

Magick, the book reads, is destined for wicked souls. 

.

Her days are spent practicing. Weaving spells and concocting curses. 

She practices making brittle bones hard as stones. But she doesn’t stop there. She bends bones until they are as crooked as her smile, shrinks them until they are as small as her heart, and whittles them away into nothing as she has her own soul.

She wants to know what blood looks like twisted wrong inside of a living body. She wants to see the exact moment it goes from sky blue to scarlet red. She wants to know what she can do with what she knows, what she can control, what she can alter. So she practices, and she learns.

.

In her dreams there are wolves howling and trees that never stop reaching. There are voices whispering and shadows that remain unseen and unsuspected. There are lanterns and screams and no stars. There are promises in her dreams and a golden book labeled with a red warning.

When she wakes she remembers nothing. 

.

She reads the bible ever night. Reads what Mother gives her, listens to what Father tells her. But that doesn’t stop her from writing in a forbidden tongue or thinking of turning the preacher into a frog during service.

Mother says magic is evil and father agrees. But they don’t know about her book and all of the things she can do for once in her life.

.

Her body gets weaker, her mind tires, and her throat grows raw. Using what she has gleaned from her books she knows it is time to make a deal.

.

She desires a body that does not weaken and shake just from walking. She desires a voice that can reach the tops of mountains and soothe the seas. She desires to have words where coughs spring free and magic to cover where her scabs constantly bleed. She desires to be free of illness and to recite her spells and charms as she pleases.

So she consults her book and obeys its script. 

She lays herself bare to the forest. She finds the oldest tree it holds and climbs to the top. The sky is gray above her and made up entirely of clouds making the branches of old trees appear much more somber. She knows now is the time to recite the lines, but her vision blurs from the effort exerted on the climb up and her head is feeling woozy. She closes her eyes for a moment and breathes in the cold fall air. Tranquility surrounds her as she prepares the words aching to drip from her tongue like golden honey from its comb.

Slipping off of the branch is easy. The wood is old and her long dress protects her from feeling the loss of the rough surface. 

Falling is easier. She doesn’t even realize she is. Her head feels too heavy and woozy to process anything else but its own pain. 

Landing is the easiest. By the time she hits the ground darkness has already consumed her. 

.

Brittle bones, whisper the spirits, make for excellent witches.

.

There are two paths.

One holds everything desirable, beginning at food and warmth and extending to love and adoration.

The other is clouded by thick fog and thin wooden branches. Much left unseen, she surmises.

Mystery the path promises. Answers the voice in her head sings.

She has no difficulty choosing.

.

Somewhere along the way she comes to a realization. Mother and Father are not with her, and they never will be again. 

She waits for the tears, for the cloudy regret, and desperate wishes. When nothing comes she realizes she cannot bring herself to be sad about it so she continues down her path.

.

She doesn’t know how long she has been walking, and no idea for how much further she must go.

Go, her mind echoes. Where am I going?

.

She is still walking when she realizes something else. Her lungs are not aching, her legs are not of the edge of collapsing, and her throat is not burning. 

A startled laugh escapes her, tears wet her eyelashes, and for the first time in her life she runs.

She runs through thick fog, past trees and other greenery. It’s all so brown she thinks, but she will not allow expired greenery to ruin her mood. Her breaths are cool and smooth and her chest rises and falls as it should, as it never has before. 

It must be fall.

Something clicks in her mind as it had when she found the book. Thousands of images crowd into her head at once with no space in-between. It’s searing and burning and unrelentingly constant. It’s the most painful thing she has ever felt. She screams as white hot pain engulfs her but her feet continue to move. The pain is over in seconds, but she knows the aftermath she is left to deal with.

“Oh,” She whispers, nothing but fallen leaves and old trees to hear her, “oh.”

.

She remembers her dreams. The warnings and dangers that lurk in the forest between the leaves and broken branches. 

Her book remains with her, as do her clothes, so she holds it close to her chest and walks with her head held high.

. 

She comes to a river and follows it deep into the wood. 

Branches brake beneath, above, and behind her. She is no fool. She knows she is being followed.

She mutters a spell to keep her feet in place as she sorts her thoughts, “Hello.” She shouts as loud as she can, the ability to use her voice to its full extent invigorating her, “I am not afraid of you. Come out of the shadows and face me.”

At first it looks as though nothing has changed but upon closer inspection she realizes her shadow has moved, and then she realizes it was never really her shadow.

A dark figure emerges from behind her, twice her size and with antlers alike to those her father used to hang above their small fireplace. 

“Who are you?” She asks, voice calm and heartbeat steady.

“Many call me the Beast.” The creature speaks, its bright eyes glowing and giving off the appearance of the only light source in the dark forest. She does not miss the symbolism in that but she does not comment on it either.

“But what do you call yourself?” She asks. She too can play its game. 

The creature’s smile, from what she can see of it, is dark and sly. 

“May I inquire about your name?” asks the creature. 

She’s read the book, knows her spells, and has headed the warnings. She does not fear this creature of shadows, but she knows better than to play into its tricks. 

She’d stripped herself of her Christian name the moment she fell into the forest. Her parents have become nothing more than dreams to her, so she leaves every part of herself they created with them. 

She becomes herself, she becomes the witch, and she becomes what the spirits desired. 

She smiles. “You may call me Adelaide.”

.

When she first finds the book she knows not what it is or where it has come from. The cover is old and worn and there is no script to be found within it.

Look harder, a voice whispers.

She runs her fingers down the page, staring until she is finally able to make something out on the filthy paper.

To Adelaide, it reads, may your magic guide you home.

The world opens up.

The key fits the lock.

.

(Somewhere–where lost souls wonder and trees made from children grow–a creature, composed of shadows and breathes in life from a lantern, laughs.)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Hope you enjoyed and comments, constructive criticisms, and kudos are much appreciated:)!


End file.
